


Four Years Gone

by legoline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case turns out different than first expected, Sam realises that there is a lot he doesn't know about his brother. Set between "Bloody Mary" and "Skin".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Years Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sweet Charity fic for Suong, who requested 1) early season one 2) protective Sam 3)a case tied to the four years Dean was on the road with John and 4) hurt!Dean. Many thanks to Pix for beta and thoughts.

The yellow post-it note must have stuck out ever since they got Dad’s journal, marking a special page in the book, but amidst the wild assembly of notes and newspaper clippings and photos Sam’s missed it. The note screams “Dad,” it really does, so maybe unconsciously, he’s been ignoring it. How it is asking them to do things, giving them jobs, but then not properly caring to point out what they are supposed to do. Guess-work, that’s what it is. Reading between the lines, looking out for the unusual, trying to find instructions everywhere. 

It had been part of Dad’s training methods, and sometimes Sam thinks that Dad still carries them out in his journal. Typical. 

Flipping the journal open, Sam slouches in the passenger seat and tries to ignore the rock music blaring from the speakers, and Dean singing along out of key. If you _could_ actually sing along to Motörhead, that is, because to Sam’s “heathen” ears it sounds more like a bunch of grunting hogs and dying rabbits. A rustle is added when Dean reaches into the bag laying in between him and Sam, and he shoves some candy into his mouth. 

Sam sighs and focuses on the page before his eyes that’s filled with Dad’s messy hand-writing, scribbled dates, abbreviations and short notes, referring to newspaper articles and mentions on TV. Eventually the noises surrounding him blend out, and Sam remembers that he used to be good at that when Dad was still driving the Impala while Dean sat in the passenger seat, and they used to talk about hunts and new rifles and new parts they would get for the car. And Sam would sit in the backseat, opened books on his lap, and if his Walkman ran out of batteries he’d just focus really hard on school and going to college, until Dad’s and Dean’s voices faded out. 

At first, Dad’s notes don’t make much sense to Sam—random letters and words, crosses and arrows referring elsewhere. But then they begin to melt together, and the pieces become one big whole. He taps Dean on the shoulder lightly. 

“We have a new case.”

***

The walls are blue and the carpet is blue, but the bed covers are lime green. Sam would probably go blind or end up huddled up in the corner rocking back and forth if this wasn’t just like any of the other stupid motel rooms he’s spent his entire life in.

Dean sits sprawled on the bed, his hand dug into a bag of chips and says, mouth full, “Hit me.” 

Any normal person would be able to barely understand him as he talks, munching and shoving more chips down his throat.

Sam glares at him, but either Dean pretends to be unimpressed or he really can’t read facial expressions. Sometimes Sam wonders who up there thought that it might be a good joke if the two of them ended up being brothers. Other times Sam thinks that if he just dug deep enough he’d eventually find out that he was adopted after all. 

Dropping to one of the chairs, Sam runs a hand through his hair—he hates how fast the road has become his home again, dusty and grim and infinite, just how fast he’s gone from someone who was going to be a lawyer and could handle life on his own to Sammy again, the little brother Dean can boss around. 

He looks at Dean, and Dean hasn’t changed a bit: still wears the same old clothes, listens to that same old music, talks about movies and chicks. Still recites the Gospel of Dad. Treats normality as if it’s something he wouldn’t touch with a stick, drops snarky remarks about college and generally, just doesn’t give a damn about anything. Except the hunt and obeying the laws that Dad taught him. 

It’s like Dean got stuck in time somewhere between when Sam left and when he came back, because even if Sam looks really close he can’t spot any difference. Isn’t that sad? a voice inside his mind asks, and Sam answers that yes, perhaps it is, but he really has enough on his plate as it is, with you know, his _girlfriend dead_ and him _having dreamt how it would happen weeks before it did_. 

He told Dean he’d die for him and that’s true, but right now that would feel like doing it for old sentiments’ sakes, like making up for things that happened a while ago, for someone he once admired. Not for this stranger who sits on the bed there and acts like their fallout never happened, who just picks up the play where they left it. And still, Sam isn’t sure whether he knows Dean at all. 

Dean snaps his fingers and pulls Sam out of his thoughts. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Care to share your wisdom with me?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger and blinks, then clears his throat. “So, there are some suspicious murders all over the country that Dad noted down. Seemingly unrelated, I mean there’s one in Ohio and another one in California and then there’s a woman in Arizona—all over the place. As far as Dad could tell, the people were unrelated too.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is this going somewhere, Sammy?”

“The way that they died—almost identical. All in all, you have over thirty people who were found dead in their apartments the past six years, bled to death from a shot wound. Only there were no signs of entry, no bullet and nobody ever heard the shot actually being fired. Or the victims scream for help. “

“That’s weird.”

“Seems like Dad thought so too. He’s noted down a bunch of coordinates that point to a town in Wisconsin and beneath that it says ‘Check local legend.’”

Dean sits up straight, ready to spring into action. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

***

The local legend that haunts Mulheim, Wisconsin doesn’t differ that much from the other local urban legends all over the States. It starts with “They say...” and though the stories always do differ a bit, the outcome never does: some people take it for scary tales told at camp fires, and some people die. 

Mulheim’s tale begins with a girl named Lisa who went out to play with her friends in the woods sixteen years ago, and one of her friends brought her father’s gun. And they played and had fun, until the friend decided to take the play ahead and pointed the gun at Lisa—certain that it was unloaded--only to find out in horror that there were bullets inside, bullets that hit Lisa in the chest, barely missing the lung. Too afraid of what their parents would say, the friends made a deal not to tell anyone and left her in the woods, certain that she was dead. But she wasn’t. She lived for an entire day, screaming for help and remaining unheard, until she finally stopped breathing, and her body was found two weeks later. 

And, _so they say_ , until this day she pops up every now and then and punishes those who’ve hurt children. 

“Do you believe that?” Dean asks as they climb out of the Impala and glance down the little slope where the forest begins. Somewhere near here that girl must have been murdered. 

“You don’t?”

“I just think it’s a little weird that all over the country some people should die because of her and some don’t. How does she choose them?”

“Guess we will have to find that out.”

And Sam does find out. After a day or so, he realises what all the victims had in common: that yes, they all did harm a child in one way or another, and that secondly, they all passed through this town shortly before the girl’s spirit came after them. 

“The road that leads into town passes by the woods where she died,” Sam explains to Dean. “Maybe she sort of picks up vibes or something. Like, if you pass her by she’ll know whether you ever harmed a child or not, and then she latches onto you. Maybe she haunts people, not places.”

Something in Dean’s face slips at the words, the facade drops and exposes fear for the fraction of a second. Just enough for Sam to glimpse it and short enough for Sam to forget about it when he asks, “What’s wrong?” and Dean snaps, “Nothing. You seeing things now?”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Fine.”

Later, he will ask himself why he didn’t trust his gut out here standing by the slope, why he’d just let that remark of Dean go like that. Because Dean wasn’t nice about it? Or grateful? Because Dean’s always avoided showing weakness and would rather have kissed a werewolf than admitting he was in trouble? And maybe, just maybe, because he didn’t want to worry Sam?

But Sam thinks none of this as he focuses on the pictures flickering over the screen, and his thoughts drift back to Jessica, again. Wondering if she, at least, died quickly. 

***

 

As it turns out, the local library doesn’t keep records of births, deaths or other news older than ten years, but Mellowdew, the neighbouring town, does. So they drive there, and they print out all the records they can find. Including the information on where Lisa Tanner is buried. They will go and salt and burn the bones tonight, Dean says, and for once, Sam doesn’t object and just nods quietly. 

It never comes to that. 

They’re on the road that passes by the woods when Dean suddenly hits the brakes, and Sam almost crushes into the windshield as the car stops with a jolt and screaming tires. When he looks up, he sees a little girl standing in the road. Two pigtails, ringlets, face pale and a bullet wound in her chest, her yellow dress smeared with blood. Her eyes are fixed on Dean, whose face has gone blank, who just stares at the girl with his mouth hanging slightly open in fear but not surprise. 

She smiles. 

And then it hits Sam. She’s chosen Dean. 

It happens very quickly. As her smile broadens, Dean suddenly gasps, and a stream of blood flows down from a tiny hole in his black winter jacket. 

“Dean—” is all that Sam manages to say before the door to the driver’s seat swings open, and with a yell Dean is pulled out. Sam hears his brother curse shortly before he grows silent, and he watches how Dean’s body is dragged over the ground into the woods with such a speed that Sam’s eyes barely catch him. 

He’s out of the car a moment later, leaping into the direction that Dean’s disappeared. He runs down the slope and calls Dean’s name over and over again, but Dean doesn’t answer. Then stillness embraces Sam, and he stands in the forest, in between trees and undergrowth, on frozen ground and Dean’s just gone without a trace. 

“Dean!” he calls again. But only silence answers. 

***

The victims died slowly—which means that chances are good Dean isn’t dead yet. And that Sam still has time, at least a bit. And luckily, night is already falling.

Sam shoots the shovel into the frozen earth and lifts up some dirt, digs his way into the grave until sweat is running down his neck and spine, until the shovel slips through his wet palms. His breath rises up into the cold winter air in short clouds.

He keeps digging, focusing on reaching Lisa’s coffin as quickly as possible. One shovel, two shovel, three shovel—he keeps his mind on the work, ignoring all images that keep seeping through, of Dean slowly fading out and choking to death. Ignoring all the questions that keep bugging him, _If the girl only chooses people who harmed a child, why did she pick Dean?_

Then he remembers Dean being so freaked when Sam mentioned the spirit’s mojo, and it all makes sense. 

The shovel hits wood, creaking under Sam’s feet. Sam raises his arms, and the shovel smashes through the rotten planks. 

***

He can’t find Dean. 

The flashlight runs up the trees, illuminating old grey trunks, and the branches bristle above Sam’s head. He’s got the collar of his jacket up, and his fingers are freezing, curled around the flashlight. The ground is hard, leaves frozen to it, rustling as Sam runs through the forest, stops and keeps running, without a sign of Dean. 

The girl’s spirit is gone—she showed up at the grave for a few seconds as Sam lit her bones, and she screamed before she fell into ashes. But Dean—Dean’s still got to be out here somewhere, maybe still hurt, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. “Dean!” he yells. 

He can’t have another person die on him—not after Jessica. Or Mom. Or after Dad’s gone missing. Not Dean. Because whether he likes it or not, Dean is all he’s got left. The only kind of family or friend that he’s still got. 

If Dean dies, then Sam won’t know what to do. Despite the fact that Dean is one of the most annoying people alive, Sam doesn’t know what he’ll do should he lose his brother. 

Sam has expected to find Dean at the site where little Lisa died, but when he gets there, he encounters nothing but more frozen ground, more trees and more fallen leaves. 

Sam zips his jacket up to his chin. The cold sends chills through his body, up and down. 

“Dean! Can you hear me?”

He keeps running, and his heart beats through the night, loud and erratic. God, what if he can’t find Dean? What if he’ll never find him, not even his body?

Then through the trees Sam sees a weak flickering light, shining in between the trunks. Faint, a glimmer of hope. And Sam remembers the newspaper article that mentioned someone’s hunting cabin, and that a few people suspected that was where the girl had been shot, and that she’d just dragged herself through the woods until her strength had given up on her. 

***

Sam bursts into the half-decayed cabin, yells “Dean!” before he’s even in. 

And there he is. Dean. 

He’s lying by the wall at the far end of the room, on the ground, huddled up, eyes closed. The bullet wound from his chest is gone; it’s the first thing Sam notices. Then he takes in Dean’s pale face, the fact that he’s not even shivering, that he doesn’t react as Sam comes storming into the room. 

There is a tiny candle next to him, almost burned out, and Dean’s fingers clasped around his silver lighter. 

A moment later, Sam is kneeling by Dean’s side, shaking him by the shoulders. 

“Dean.” Sam puts a hand to Dean’s face, and the skin is cold; he presses his ear against Dean’s chest and the heartbeat is coming too slow, too faint. 

Oh God. Oh God.

He’s been lying in the cold too long here in this hut where the wind shoots through the windows and gaps in the planks. 

“Dean,” Sam repeats louder, and finally, there is life within Dean. His forehead twists into a frown, and then he blinks, slowly as if his lids weigh a ton. His gaze fixes on Sam and clears up for a moment, before drowsiness overwhelms him. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks. His voice wavers. Damn, he’s freezing, and he doesn’t have a clear idea where he is, and Dean needs to get warm _right now_. Dean’s eyes fall shut, and Sam shakes him, orders him not to fall asleep. Orders always work with Dean. At least he tries to stay awake now. 

“...c-cold...” Dean stutters, and Sam shrugs out of his jacket and spreads it over Dean. Dean looks at him, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise, but Sam ignores it and helps Dean up, arm wrapped around Dean’s shoulders.

Dean staggers, barely able to lift his feet, and leans into Sam heavily. Sam, who keeps talking all the way to keep Dean awake, who shakes him and orders him to stay with him, until Sam’s voice has gone hoarse. He leads Dean into what he thinks is the direction to the road but he can’t be sure. Maybe he just gets them even more lost. 

Then the trees stop, and there is a slope; he drags Dean—who’s barely keeping on his feet--up and catches his breath once they’re on the open road, and in some distance, he spots the Impala parked by the roadside. Dean finally gives up then, and his knees buckle, and Sam catches him just in time before Dean hits the tar. 

***

Sam’s sitting in their room with a second pair of socks and another sweater pulled over the one he was wearing, trying to warm up. Dean’s hidden beneath he covers; Sam’s given him the one from his bed too. He’s dozing, warming up, and Sam wakes him every thirty minutes. Dean greets him with a muffled grunt then, saying that he’s not a baby, but Sam doesn’t care. 

He grabs the coffee mug with both hands and takes a sip. 

Dean told him on their way through the forest, when Sam would have done anything to keep Dean talking and conscious. Told Sam about his first hunt on his own, a year after Sam had left for college. How he’d tried to find a poltergeist in an old house down in Louisiana, how he’d seen movement from the corner of his eye and shot rock salt without thinking, how he had hit one of the playing kids and how the boy had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. 

Dad probably doesn’t know about it, and Dean probably wouldn’t have told Sam if he hadn’t been so confused at that moment. _It explains the bleeding eyes_ , Sam thinks, _Dean’s secret where someone got hurt._

And for the first time Sam realises that life probably wasn’t just fun and sunshine while Sam was at Stanford. That Dean has his demons too, only he keeps them locked away where nobody can ever find them. He probably would have needed comfort or somebody to tell him it wasn’t his fault. Sam had had Jessica for that. Who did Dean have? Nobody. Especially not Dad. 

Sam has always considered himself as the lonely member of their screwed up family, the lone wolf with no one to talk to. Now it occurs to Sam that Dean only had had one member to talk to, too: Sam. And after Sam left... 

Maybe they’re not so different after all. 

Sam glances at his wrist watch and rises from the chair, walks over to Dean’s bed and shakes him by the shoulders. 

“Dean? Wake up?”

“Lemme alone...” Dean grunts into his pillow. 

“No,” Sam replies, voice steady. “Not a chance.”

“Shoulda left me there...” Dean slurs, half-asleep. It’s a punch into Sam’s gut. He can never tell these days when Dean is joking and when he’s serious and when he’s actually serious but is covering it up with a joke. He used to be so good at reading Dean, but since he’s been gone he’s forgotten how to do that. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam mutters. 

“You’re stupid,” Dean replies. He’s still white in his face, lips still a touch too pale, but Sam can’t determine whether Dean’s still freezing or whether it’s the shock or whether Dean’s just too genuinely freaked. Sam has tried to talk about it, he’s tried to drill itinto Dean’s head that the kid’s death wasn’t his fault, but Dean might not have been listening. He just closed his eyes and either Dean excels at pretending to be asleep or he really dozed off. Both possibilities seem equally likely. 

Sam puts the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead, and Dean rolls over, away from Sam. 

“Go away.”

“You’re not running a fever,” Sam informs Dean. 

“I’m fine. Just let me sleep.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re not getting worse, okay?”

“What are you, a nurse?”

Dean’s annoyed now, that much Sam can tell. It makes him smile, and he’s not even sure why. Maybe because for the first time in a long while, it feels like being brothers again. Like when Sam was twelve and they lived in Portland and Dean had the flu and acted like he was going to die over it. Sam cared for him back then like he does now. No matter how much he wants to deny it, he’s lost count on all the times Dean took care of him and nursed him back to health. He only needs the fingers of either hand to count all the times that he’s taken care of Dean in the same way. 

A bit of the Dean that Sam used to know shines through in these moments now, of the Dean that Sam used to follow around. 

_I remember this_ , Sam thinks. But he doesn’t say it. 

“Shut up and get some rest,” Sam tells Dean with a smile. Dean grunts something but it’s too quiet for Sam to hear, and a few seconds later Dean’s breath’s already evened out.

For the first time in a long time, they’re just brothers again.

-end-


End file.
